Out of Comission
by Coseepo
Summary: As school children and teachers begin to be killed in their schools, the police are getting desperate. At least two people are killed each day. They need Sherlock, but he is in no position to help... as he lies in hospital. No Slash.
1. The Meaning of Life

**Hi guys :) First Sherlock fic. Sorry if it doesn't fit the intellectual style of the show, but I still need to finish my education. Anywho, this is just a bit of an introductory chapter, nothing much happens yet. Sorry for the length, too.**

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><p>Sherlock sat silently at his desk, eyes shut, hands together under his chin.<p>

John stared incredulously. "_What_ are you even thinking about?"

"Please. Be quiet."

"No, seriously. We haven't had a case for ages. You haven't even left the apartment in two weeks."

Sherlock opened his eyes and glared at his roommate.

"I was thinking," he said, icily, "about the meaning of life."

John raised an eyebrow, with a slight smile. "That's not like you. Seems like a pretty ordinary thing for a person to think of."

Sherlock didn't take the bait. He closed his eyes again. "Only if you are trying to work out what it is."

He looked unconvinced. He narrowed his eyes. "…What?"

"The meaning of life. You know. Why we're here, what we should _do_ with ourselves."

"Are you honestly trying to tell me you know the meaning of life?"

Sherlock once again opened his eyes, and looked meaningfully at John. "I do." Eyes shut again, he continued. "It's quite simple really. I'm surprised more people haven't realised it." He gave a small laugh, and added, in an undertone: "It's not particularly exciting, either."

John dropped his hands leaned forwards, eyebrows half way up his forehead. "I don't believe this."

Sherlock opened his eyes yet again and smiled. He lowered his hands. "And so you shouldn't."

"What?"

"Yes," said Sherlock distractedly. He got up and went to the window, looking out with a bored out. He turned his head to the doctor again. "I was lying."

John opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. There was no use arguing with him. He looked at the ceiling a second, then hung his head. At last, he looked up at the detective. "Dinner, then?"

"Please."

He got up and went into the kitchen, but when he opened the fridge, he found it to be empty.

"I'm just popping out, okay?" he said, returning to the lounge and pulling on his jacket.

"Mmm."

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><p><strong>Please R &amp; R :)<strong>


	2. Crying over Spilt Milk

**Euch. Sorry for this chapter, but it had to be written. I know the styles about distant and disjointed, so… yeah, just sorry :) Chapters will (hopefully) get better.**

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><p>John took slightly longer than he had expected getting the shopping, as he had got into a conversation with a work colleague at the shop. Still, it had only just turned dark when he pushed, hands full, back in the building.<p>

He reached the top of the stairs and paused. His keys were inside his jacket. His hands were gripping the handles of shopping bags.

"Sherlock?"

No answer. He hadn't expected there to be, really.

"Alright, don't trouble yourself…"

The floor was filthy here. He didn't want to put the bags on it. Instead, he hitched the bags in his right hand up his arm and reached for his keys. As he did, the two sets of bags collided, and one of them suddenly split. Eggs, milk and vegetables spilled over the floor. John froze, staring for a moment at the mess. Anger built inside him. This was it, this was the _last straw._ Casting down the remaining bags, he unlocked the door and threw it open. "Sherlock?"

He wasn't sitting at his desk or in his chair. John stormed into the kitchen.

"Sher-"

He stopped. Sherlock was lying, breathing lightly, unconscious on the floor. Slowly, John felt his training kick in.

He glanced around, trying to determine the cause. Everything seemed normal; or, as normal as anything ever was in their flat.

He knelt down beside the detective and lightly gripped his shoulders. "Sherlock? Can you hear me…?"

No answer.

With one hand, John began to pull off Sherlock's scarf – really, he shouldn't where it in the flat anyway – while reaching into his pocket with the other. He quickly dialled 999 and answered the questions of the woman at the other end, still fumbling with the scarf.

"Thank you sir. An ambulance should be at your residence within ten minutes."

He dropped his phone back into his pocket, finally freeing his other hand to properly undo the scarf. He pulled it away easily and paused for a moment. He let out a long, low breath and shook his head.

Sherlock's neck was a raw, fiery red, along the exact lines of the scarf.

Someone had strangled him.

John cleared his throat and got back to what he was doing. He put Sherlock into the recovery position and sat, silently watching him, waiting.

He looked at his face. Sherlock looked uncomfortable, as if he were having a bad dream; eyes slightly screwed up, mouth disgruntled. John's gaze unconsciously skipped past his neck, down to his chest. It followed down the arm and rested on his right hand. What… was that a bruise, on the edge of his hand…?

There came the blaring of sirens outside. John sighed in relief and got to his feet. He hesitated a moment, reluctant to leave Sherlock like that. Still. It wouldn't be for long. He hurried down the stairs to greet the paramedics and point them upstairs. It was only as Sherlock was loaded onto the stretcher, only as responsibility was shifted from him that his emotions caught up with him.

A pang of fear shook through him. "_Sherlock,_" he breathed. He followed dazedly as they carried him back out onto the street and into the ambulance. He was vaguely aware of a paramedic asking if he would like to ride in the ambulance with them.

"…What? Oh, right, uh… better not," he forced a smile, and gave a small cough. He gestured to Sherlock. "He, uh… He'd be annoyed if I did."

The paramedic just nodded. John stood and watched as the doors were closed and the ambulance disappeared down the road, his hands behind his head.

After a while, he sighed, and turned back inside. He stepped over the spilled shopping and bags with a slight regret. When he reached the flat, fell into one of the chairs and sighed again. Sherlock… ugh.

He rubbed his eyes and gripped the bridge of his nose. He'd have to call the police, of course. There was an assault in their flat. He was about to reach for his phone again, when from somewhere a different phone vibrated.

Sherlock's phone.

He looked at it where it sat on the table. Sherlock was heading to hospital. It might be important.

John picked it up and checked the number.

Lestrade.

Crap.

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><p>…<p> 


	3. The Hospital

**Okay, *think* I'm beginning to get the hang of the characters' speech patterns now…**

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><p><em>'Sherlock, come to the police station. We need you. GL.'<em>

John sighed and took his own phone out of his pocket. He dialled the number.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Lestrade? It's John. John Watson."

"Ah, John. Have I upset Sherlock in some way?"

"What?"

"I was wondering why he got you to call."

"Oh."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"I was about to call you anyway, actually," said John.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I'd like to report a crime."

"What happened?" Lestrade sounded slightly worried.

"Someone broke into our flat and -"

"When?"

"I'm sorry?"

"When did they break in?"

"Just now, while I was out."

"Was Sherlock out?"

John sighed, ruefully. "No."

"Then why didn't he stop them?"

"That's the thing… Someone broke into our flat and strangled Sherlock."

For ten seconds, there was silence.

"_WHAT_?"

John's eyes prickled at the reaction, reminding him of his own feelings. "Yeah." He struggled to keep his voice level.

"Where's Sherlock now? Is he alright?"

"He's headed to hospital. I'm going there now with a few things."

"…I'll meet you there."

With that, the Detective Inspector hung up, leaving John to puzzle over his parting words.

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><p><em>What would Sherlock want?<em>

His phone, certainly, thought John, picking it up and putting it in his bag. And his laptop, so he John could blog info about the case for him to read while he was in hospital.

That'd have to do for now. He was about to leave, when Sherlock's scarf, discarded on the kitchen floor, caught his eye. That was what had been used to strangle him. Maybe if they fingerprinted it, they could – ah. No. John had touched it when he was taking it off, obviously. And the criminal would probably have been wearing gloves.

Cursing, John grabbed it, stuffed it in his bag and left.

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><p>It one and a half hours before John was finally allowed to see Sherlock. He had been given his own room. John entered quietly and put his bag down on the little table beside the bed.<p>

"Sherlock?"

No answer. It wasn't so surprising, really. Even if Sherlock had woken up, they probably would have sedated him.

John sat down on one of the little plastic chairs and looked awkwardly at his feet. He couldn't look at Sherlock. With the white room and his pale skin, the red-purple mark on his neck was glaringly obvious. Now that his arms were bare, the doctor could see that there, too, there were bruises.

He rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands, giving him a place to rest his forehead. He closed his eyes and gently shook his head. This… couldn't happen. Not to Sherlock. Sure, he got into situations where he could be hurt. John had been there. Epic battles with assassins and shootouts with criminal masterminds, and Sherlock had come out smelling like roses. But the idea that he could be strangled while John had been out for five minutes…

_Except it hadn't been five minutes, had it?_ he thought, guiltily. _What would have happened if he hadn't gotten into that conversation?_

Something else was bothering him. People had tried to kill Sherlock several times. Now someone had had a chance… and decided to let him live.

Perplexed, John leant back, lowering his hands and opening his eyes.

"I didn't hear you come in, Detective," he said, vaguely surprised.

Lestrade, standing by the door, smiled grimly at him. "I thought it would be better not to disturb you."

They both looked at Sherlock a moment.

"John, could I, um… could I just have a quick word outside?"

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><p>"You knew this was coming, John," said Lestrade as they entered the corridor.<p>

"About the text you sent Sherlock?"

"Yes."

-Pause-

"Look, John -"

"Detective, I'm sorry, alright? I'm not like Sherlock. I don't solve cases. There's no reason I'd fare any better than you."

"You've lived in a flat with him, that's more than any of us have ever done. Surely you've picked up something."

John raised an eyebrow at him, before turning to go back into the room. Lestrade caught his shoulder.

"I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important. But I don't know what to do, school children are dying and there is just no way we can stop it."

John stopped. "School children?"

Lestrade nodded. The doctor sighed.

"Alright. Fill me in."

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><p><strong>R &amp; R please!<strong>


	4. Bodies and Memories

**Sorry this took so long! Please enjoy.**

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><p>"So. School children."<p>

"Yes."

John and Lestrade were sitting across from each other at a hospital canteen table.

"Which school?" asked John.

Lestrade leant back in his chair. "Several." He paused. "We don't know what to do."

"Wait, wait, wait. What do you mean, 'several'?"

"It's been three days since the first murder. There have been a further seven murders, in four different schools, none of them with any leads."

"Seven…" John let the information sink in. "All school children?"

"All but one. A maths teacher, James Malone."

"And are they all in schools?"

"Every single one."

"Any connection, besides the obvious?"

"None."

John thought a little. "Do we know anything about the killer?"

"Only that they have unquestioned access to any school in the city, even after security measures were increased."

The doctor exhaled longly through his nose and leant back hard in his chair. "I can see why you came to Sherlock."

There was a break in conversation for a minute or so, until:

"Well?"

"What?" asked John, jerked out of his thoughts.

Lestrade coughed slightly, glancing around the canteen. He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table. "Will you help us with the case?"

John shut his eyes and slowly shook his head. Lestrade's face dropped, but then:

"It doesn't look like I have a choice, does it?"

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><p><em>The boy hurried down the streets, calling out his sister's name anxiously. "Harry?" It echoed down the empty alleys. "Harry?"<em>

_Why hadn't his parents listened to him? John knew his sister; she would never have been late home on a school night. They had just said she had gone to the park like she sometimes did, that she was losing interest in school as she got older like he had._

_"Harry?"_

_He ran past another alley. He halted. He turned back. The shape in the alley was still there._

_"HARRY!"_

"John?"

…

"_John?"_

"Huh? What, sorry?"

They were in the morgue of St. Barts, so that John could become 'acquainted' with the victims. As soon as the first corpse had been unzipped, however, John had fallen into a sort of trance, staring, mouth slightly open at the girl.

Lestrade looked at him carefully. "Are you alright?"

"Hmm? Yeah, fine, just… fine…"

The detective inspector seemed unconvinced, but did not bother to follow it up. "So what can you tell me about this one?"

John stuck out his bottom lip and blew air up his face. "Well, I don't know… approximately fourteen, dead for…" he moved her head a bit, "three days?" He looked up at Lestrade.

"The first murder?"

Lestrade nodded. John half-nodded in reply.

"Yes, well, three days." He stuck out his bottom lip, raised his eyebrows and shook his head, as if searching for anything he'd left out. "Seemed to be healthy before she died, probably into sports, but intelligent too – good at lessons. I'd say she favours the colour pink, popular…"

"Looks like you got something from Sherlock after all," said Lestrade, looking at him in amazement.

John looked at him blankly.

"I mean," continued the DI, "if you can tell all that from just her body, then -"

"Oh, no," interjected John quickly. "I didn't get that from the body, it was…" He stopped short. Blood rushed to his cheeks as he realised where he had got the information from, and he looked furiously at his feet.

"Ignore what I just said, I have nothing to back it up," he admitted. When he chance a look up again, Lestrade was surveying him with concern.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, I just…" He sighed. "It's nothing to do with the case," he said, forcing a smile.

Lestrade smiled sympathetically back. "Now I _know_ you've been spending too long with our little consulting detective. It doesn't matter about the case, you obviously have a problem. What is it?"

John looked at the encouraging face, and sighed. "It's… Well, when I was younger," he started, slowly, "there was an… _incident_ involving a man and my sister. And I found her. Looking like… this." He indicated the girl on the cold morgue slab.

"And she liked sports and pink?"

John nodded. "But it's fine, we can carry on, I was just… a little distracted." He picked up the chart and looked carefully at it.

"Were all the victims stabbed to death?"

"All," said Lestrade.

"Any sign of the murder weapon?"

"No, afraid not."

"Hmm." He lifted the sheet and looked at the wounds. "It looks like a dagger, or a knife. Stabbed in the chest area, but avoiding the heart. Could have been accidental or deliberate."

He lowered the sheet again.

"May I see the others?"

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><p>Eight bodies. John looked at eight bodies in that hour. Three girls, thirteen, sixteen and eighteen, and four boys thirteen, fifteen, fifteen, and seventeen. Then there was the teacher, James Malone. Thirty-five.<p>

"So?"

John looked up at Lestrade, who raised an eyebrow. John coughed as the final body was wheeled away.

"I think we've got everything we can from the bodies." He folded his arms. "The fact that all they all had wounds which avoided the heart suggests it was deliberate. Could give us an insight into the mind of the killer."

Lestrade conceded with a nod of the head.

"What's next?" asked John.

Lestrade's phone buzzed, and he looked down. 'Hillmead School, Porters Road.'

"There's been another one."

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><p><strong>R &amp; R please!<strong>


	5. Come Back, Sherlock

**Okay, um, wow. It has been SO. LONG. Since I updated this. Sorry -.-"**

**The main reason is that I don't really like the story. I mean, I like the story, but the CRIME is really disturbing. Like, verging on M. I'm keeping it T because there's nothing graphic, but seriously, if you're easily disturbed, you might want to pretend I never did update this.**

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><p>An old, tremulous female teacher led John and Lestrade through a deserted school. John wondered briefly where everyone was, before releasing that they would have been sent home. He frowned a little. Sherlock would have known that before they got the school.<p>

Just ahead of him was Lestrade. Lestrade. Lestrade was out of his depth. Lestrade needed Sherlock. And Lestrade expected _him_ to be able to fix this.

John almost slipped as they silently turned another corner, and he looked at the floor. There was a puddle of water that filled the entire width of the hallway. Could be important. He made a mental note.

"In here," quivered the teacher, indicating a door with a small square window set in the top.

The door was swung open, though John wasn't quite sure by who. It might have been him. Involuntarily shut his eyes and flinched back a little. Forcing his eyelids apart, he once again took in the scene. By now, Lestrade had already entered the room and was kneeling beside the body. It was another boy, about fifteen. Even from a distance, John could tell it was another stabbing, although he could not see any sign of the murder weapon. His eyes scanned the scene, trying to see like Sherlock, think like Sherlock, but without thinking _about_ Sherlock. It was hard.

Right. Overturned chairs. A struggle. Made sense, really. Um. Right. It was the chairs at the back at the room, near the body, so it was possible the boy didn't feel that he was in danger straight away. Could be someone he knew, then, someone he inherently trusted… Or he just felt safe because he was at school. Christ. This was hard. And spirit-breaking.

Um, okay. He just needed to examine the body next. Right. He went over and joined Lestrade by the boy's side. Lestrade shook his head.

"Poor sod."

John nodded slightly in agreement, and tried to glean something more from the body. It was hard to tell with the blood, but from the rips in the clothes it looked like this boy had also been stabbed in a circular pattern around his heart. The pocket of his trousers was ripped, too. In a struggle, perhaps?

Why grab at the trouser pocket? Was the attacker on the floor? Christ, he was no good at this. He needed Sherlock.

Sherlock. _Come back Sherlock._

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><p>John and Lestrade sat in Lestrade's office, the former looking through papers, the latter searching the schools' databases on the computer. John had wanted to do this himself, but had to admit that the police officer was right when he pointed out that even allowing him to look at the papers was bending the rules.<p>

He guessed it was just another way he was different to Sherlock.

He rifled through the papers. One of the schools hadn't had an incident, not even a minor injury, for about three years before the murder of two of their students.

There was another thing, too. A name. A name that kept appearing. Edward Lenton. A governor who frequented schools to speak with the head teachers. And yes – no – _yes, _he had been to each of the four where a murder had taken place. John checked the dates. His mouth fell open.

"Lestrade. Lestrade, come look at this."

He came over, and John showed him the different papers and the dates of the visits.

"He was there at every single murder," Lestrade murmured.

"Almost. These records are only up-to-date to last week, but I'd bet anything he was at Hillmead School today." He slammed the paper onto the desk. "We may have even seen him."

"Right." Lestrade returned to the computer, and typed the name into Hillmead's School register for that day.

"There."

John came over. Sure enough, Edward Lenton had signed in an hour before the murder, and left five minutes afterwards. John looked at Lestrade.

"We've got him."

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><p><strong>Bleurgh.<strong>

**Reviews please.**

**Update on Sherlock's condition in the next chapter probably.**


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